A Prayer
by IAmSuper
Summary: Tifa and a downward spiral.


A Prayer

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_Okay – this is kind of AU, in that everybody's seen that '500 years after' thing, where Midgar's all uninhabited and stuff.  I wrote this before I attempted to rationalize it, so um… we're assuming that people went back to Midgar after the whole Meteor incident.  Also, I'm kind of guessing that the fact that they had a church means they had Christianity.. so, yeah.  I'm making just a few assumptions here ^^;;_

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            Tifa had never been religious.  Faith was just a name in Nibelheim; Heaven was anywhere outside.  But it was different in Midgar.  There were churches, and people who visited them.  Maybe not on the Plate, but in the slums, yes.  She could recall thugs, thieves, and drunkards heading up the steps of the Sector Six church for confession – hell, she remembered them leaving the bar some mornings to get there early.

            This, incidentally, was one such morning.  "Put it on my tab."  An old, white-haired man mumbled, pulling his grease-stained yellow coat back up on his shoulders.

            "You better pay, next time, Mr. Kranz," Tifa teased, writing herself a note.

            "I will," the old man called back as he shuffled toward the door, "and you know that's no lie, 'cause I'm on my way t' church!"  A few customers looked up disinterestedly, then went back to what they were doing – reading a newspaper, scribbling something on a napkin, picking splinters off the tables…

            Tifa rubbed at a spot on the counter with a damp, much-used rag.  It was raining outside, she observed, staring out the window.

            Behind her, there was a crash, and "Ow – dammit," muttered Cloud, holding his head tenderly.  "That's what I get for not tyin' my shoes."  He grinned brightly at Tifa, taking the old man's place at the bar.

            After a moment, she replied, "I guess so."  She stared at the spot on the counter that just wouldn't go away.  

            "Tif?" Cloud said, a little playfully.  He leaned in.  "You okay?"

            There was a pause; she knew she should answer Cloud because in the back of her mind there was a voice that said so, but it was just too convenient and comfortable to think about what she wanted to say – or not think at all.  The countertop seemed to have become very flat and one-dimensional.  She closed her eyes.

            "Tifa?" Cloud asked.  He sounded concerned, but she didn't move.  "Tifa!"

            "I'm going to the church!"  She blurted, eyes snapping open and automatically meeting his.  It was such a shock, seeing that strange, bright blue as though she hadn't really looked at him for months.  Maybe she hadn't.  "Watch the bar for me," she said quickly, shoving the rag into his hands and walking out.

            Nobody was loitering outside the new Seventh Heaven (Cloud had wanted to name it the Fifth Heaven, since it was rebuilt in Sector Five, but Tifa had told him that was stupid, and it was).  On account of the rain, no one was outside at all.  Rain in the slums was five times worse than rain on the Plate, because the water was running down from drains and was mixed with dirt from the streets above.  And she didn't even have an umbrella.

            As she picked up a run halfway to Sector Six, she saw old, partially sympathetic and partially fascinated people watching from the warmth of their houses, with their cobblestone walkways, and their quaint gardens and chimneys…

            A stream of icy rainwater hit her in the face and ran over her head as she ducked under it.  "Snap out of it," she scolded herself.  Midgar slum houses had no walkways, they were very rarely warm, and all but the most decent ones leaked.  Precious few were quaint.  Only one – in this area, anyway – had a garden.

            She didn't realize that she'd forsaken the church idea until she slipped in the mud outside Aerith's house and fell on her hands and knees, drenched and shaking.  It was cold.  Not only that, but she was crying, and she didn't know why.

            "Young lady…"  A mild, soft voice made her breath catch in her throat.  She froze.  "Young lady, is something wrong?"  Sticky footsteps in the mud, and a man in black pants and a matching shirt knelt in front of her.  Reluctantly, she lifted her head to look at him – he seemed in his late twenties, with just a line or two near his eyes, which were light brown, sort of dull, and kind.  The eyes a doctor would have, she thought.  Or a priest.  He had small, circular glasses on the end of his nose, and neatly combed light brown hair.  He looked a little worried.

            "I-I-" she stammered, "I – no, there's nothing…nothing…" strange, but she couldn't bring herself to tell him there was nothing wrong.

            "Come on," he said, taking her elbow in a gentle but firm grip and guiding her out of the mud and into the house.

            It was different, she saw, and the observation was accompanied by a twinge of pain.  Where Elmyra had put a china cabinet, there was now a bookcase.  Where she'd had a still life of fruit, there was nothing – in fact, most of the walls were bare.  It was less a cozy home and more a study; there were books everywhere: on tables, on shelves, on the floor… Candles were lit in nearly every corner, and there was a sort of jungle where the pantry had been: assorted exotic plants grew in terracotta pots, partially hiding a large cage made of wire mesh and filled with butterflies.

            "This is, uh, my house," he said, and Tifa realized that she was staring.  Bashfully, he added, "Welcome."

            "Thanks," she said.  It was awkward, thanking this stranger for being allowed to visit Aerith's house – Aerith had never been able to see Elmyra's new house in Kalm, after all, and this place seemed to hold her echo.

            After a while, she turned to him and remarked, "I used to know a girl who lived here."

            "Really?"  The man asked, genuinely interested.

            "Yeah."  Tifa clasped her hands behind her back and walked slowly around the room, examining things and taking comfort in the sound her boots made on the old wooden floor.  At least that hadn't changed.

            "And her name was…?" he prompted, sitting in the room's single chair.  "Oh!  I'm sorry, have a seat," he said, leaping up and gesturing to the chair.

            "I'm fine, thanks," she replied offhand.  "And her name was Aerith.  Gainsborough," she added, "Aerith Gainsborough."

            "Aerith Gainsborough."  He repeated.  "It she the reason you're here?"  The question was so unexpected that Tifa couldn't answer.

            "Who are you?" she asked instead.

            The man looked at her with earnest sympathy before saying, "Marcus."

            He offered his hand, which she shook.  "Tifa."  She smiled half-heartedly.  "I, uh, work at the Seventh Heaven."

            "The bar?"  Marcus asked, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.  Tifa almost blushed.  "It's the most famous bar this side of Midgar," he confided, winking.

            "It is?"

            "Yep."  He nodded.  "People even talk about it in the church, if you can believe that."

            _The church… "I have to go," she said, hoping she sounded apologetic as she turned toward the door._

            "Where to?"  Marcus asked.  Once again, he seemed concerned.

            "Church," she said briefly, opening the door and hurrying out – she didn't bother to shut it, but she heard it shut behind her, followed by those sticky footfalls.

            "You wouldn't object to a little company, would you?"  Marcus quickly caught up with her, his arms wrapped around his thin frame.  She fancied that his ribs stuck out under his shirt, he was so thin.

            "Are you hitting on me, Marcus?"  Tifa asked humorlessly.  She resisted the urge to hug herself, too; instead trailing her left hand on whatever presented itself: a pipe, a fence, a bench.

            "No!  I'm late, that's all."

            "Confession?"

            "I'm the one who listens to them, yes."

            Tifa slowed down and peered at him curiously.  "You work at the church?"

            He blushed a little.  "Part time.  I mean, I wouldn't exactly call it working, since it's voluntary.  I usually work at a house on the Plate; I tutor a little girl there.  I'm writing a book, too.  On medicine."  Tifa bit her lip – she didn't say so, but she was impressed.  Here she was, the owner of a bar, and then there was Cloud, currently unemployed, and then there was _Marcus… working – no, volunteering – at the local slum church, tutoring little girls, and writing a book about medicine._

            The constant streams of water from above became veritable waterfalls, and the torrents that were slamming into metal on the Plate and below drowned out nearly everything else.  "Hurry!"  Marcus shouted unnecessarily as they both dashed into the church.

            Tifa shut the heavy door behind them.  It was very dark in the church, and empty, which came as a surprise.  The two stood in silence for a moment, shivering.

            "Marcus," Tifa finally whispered, "I have a confession to make."

            Marcus glanced at her, that sympathetic half-smile on his face again, and walked ahead.  "Right this way."  His voice fit better in the church than the house, soft and forgiving as it was.

            He led her to a sort of box; a makeshift confessional, and opened the door for her.  She ducked inside; he shut the door.  While she waited a little nervously, she fingered the latticework that separated the two sides of the box.  It was so intricate – she wondered where he'd gotten it.

            "You may begin," Marcus said, startling her as he stepped into the other side.

            "Okay, well-"

            "Oh, you're supposed to-"

            "What?"

            "Nothing."

            "No, what?"  Tifa squinted to see him – the light from the open door behind his figure obscured his expression even more than the omnipresent darkness.

            "Well, you were supposed to say, 'Forgive me father for I have sinned', but it…" he shook his head impatiently.  "It's okay.  Just talk."

            Tifa took a deep breath.  "Okay.  I used to know this girl, like I told you, and her name was Aerith."  She paused.  "I wished she would die.  Every day, I wanted her to die."  She could see that he nodded, but she couldn't tell if he was horrified or disgusted.  She rushed on.  "But I didn't mean to!  She was so much more…"  She fumbled for words.  "More…_perfect than I am, and…"_

            "So you were jealous," prompted Marcus.

            "Yes."  She sighed.  "And – this is gonna sound crazy, but bear with me, here – the Planet accuses me of killing her.  Accused, I mean," she quickly corrected herself.  After all, she hadn't fallen into the Lifestream for a year and a half, now.

            Marcus was still for a while.  She had her fingertips on the latticework and her breathing was slight, eyes trained on his shadowy figure.  He shifted.

            "You're not one of those Ancients, are you?" he asked.

            "Oh, no."  Tifa paused.  "But she was."

            "Ah…"  She could see him nodding again.  "It must have been very interesting to have known her."

            "She was a good person," Tifa said.  Her voice sounded small.

            "And I suppose you think you're not…?"  Marcus asked, slightly amused.  She didn't answer.  "Pray for her," he finally said.

            She waited a moment, convinced that some higher punishment had yet to be spoken, until he said, "That's it."

            "T-thank you," stammered Tifa, stumbling out of the confessional.

            "Wait, I'll walk you to the door."  Marcus got out and hurried to meet her in front of the pews, and then had to hurry to keep up.  She was short, but she walked quickly now that she had a purpose.

            As she pulled open one gargantuan door, she cast him an uncertain glance.

            "Come back any time if you need something," he said kindly, just as she slipped out.

           It was still cold.  Water came down in tiny rivulets from the Plate, though it was no longer noisy; the rain had stopped.  It was still dark in the slums, but that was normal.  Streetlights, as they could best be called, sputtered and buzzed and fought to stay alive.  Coal was so far inferior to makou that nearly everything sputtered and buzzed, these days.  It must be early afternoon, Tifa thought, and Cloud might be worried.

            "It's not like I'm a little girl anymore," she muttered to herself, as though she'd heard Cloud say otherwise.  Still, she headed home.

            When she reached the bar and saw that the fluorescent 'open' sign had been turned off, she was angry.  Cloud still didn't have a _job after all this time living in her apartment, and now when she asked him to watch the bar for a few hours, he couldn't be __bothered?_

            "Cloud!"  She spat, slamming open both doors.  There was no response.  All the lights in the bar were off, and she suddenly had a horrible thought: maybe Cloud had left, and he wasn't coming back…

            _Sniff.  That was what she heard, that made her motionless and attentive, head tilted.  Another sniffle – from behind the bar.  The dim light trickling through the dirty window helped to illuminate those shockingly blue eyes, as if they needed any help.  As she drew closer, she saw that he was crying, and why: he held a piece of paper flat with both hands, whereupon a yellow flower was pressed._

            "Oh, Cloud."  She had meant to sound sympathetic, but there was scorn and brevity in her words, and with her hands on her hips and her careless stance, there was no doubt as to what she thought of his sentiment.  Stupid goddamned flower.  She wondered if he'd ever worried about _her, or cried for her, or kept something of hers – a picture on his nightstand, anything.  _

            "How can you say that?"  He whispered, turning his shining, tear-streaked countenance on her.

            She pursed her lips, spun on her heel and stomped up the stairs.  At least in her room she couldn't hear his sniveling.  In a rage, she threw open the window and leaned out into the metallic landscape and the grey horizon, and shouted: "I'll never pray for her, I'll **never pray for her!"  She wished the window would just slam on her back so she could cry and sob and wallow in self-pity.  And it did.**


End file.
